HD 'A Brilliant Dichotomy'
by tigersilver
Summary: Post-War; AU; EWE. Draco lives with a green eyed monster. A 'Save the Hexfiles' fic, sponsored by the wonderful centopiedi.


Author: **tigersilver**  
Pairing: H/D  
Rating: PG-13  
Word Count: 4,900  
Recipient: **centopiedi*** , for the donation to Save the Hex!  
Warnings/Summary: Post-war, established relationship, implied oral, Owls. _Draco has a green-eyed monster he lives with._  
This is for the wonderful **centopiedi*** , who donated funds for the **Save the Hex**auction, and it is my very great pleasure to present this fic. **centopiedi*** wished to see an established relationship fic. I hope this suits, my dear! I do adore a Jealous!Draco!  
...actually, let's call that by what it is: an Over-the-top!Draco.

**HD 'A Brilliant Dichotomy' for centopiedi**

It was a brilliant dichotomy.

And Lavender Brown was _not on_.

Draco, having bagged Harry Potter, was damned proud of it, but the Brown bint was a slag and a baggage and Draco was fuming. Pacing and fuming and reviewing his favoured hexes.

He could care less if she was Harry's old schoolmate from Gryffindor; he could give a flying pig—or fig—or wig—if she was in the midst of a messy divorce from that Finnegan chappie (up the Irish, mainly for realizing Brown was not all that; besides, Draco was rather pleased to learn Finnegan was breaking up with his horrid wife over that rather fit bloke, Dean Thomas. _His_ affair, not hers, at the bottom of this contretemps in the sea of Ye Auld Gryffindordom and wouldn't that set the red-and-gold lion boat a'rocking something fierce? Sod the so-noble House of butter-wouldn't-melt arseholes! Slytherins were so much more…civilized when it came to these things!)

What_ever_. Still _not on_. The Brown Witch had no redeeming features to her credit; not one! Draco didn't appreciate Potter popping out at all hours to escort the wench home from the clubs she frequented, trolling for some poor sod to shag her out of everyone involved's shared misery; he didn't like one iota the smear of _Never-Smear_™ lip-gloss he'd discovered on one of Harry's shirt collars of an evening and he absolutely would not tolerate Harry ditching a quiet dinner at home with his partner to plod over yet _again_ to her dive of an apartment on Pathetique Alley and help her mend her clogged sink. Or anything else she needed fixing up, now that the so-savvy Seamus was fled with his dark paramour to the sunny climes of Barbados and hasty tropical divorces.

Not on, not on, not _on_.

Except that, well…Harry had no bloody idea, the fool. Blinkered git-he'd not a clue that the little bitch was actively employing every wile in her petty arsenal to lure him in: breasts like Muggle torpedos, magically enhanced faux eyelashes and that horrible, helpless little whinge she'd perfected recently—springing from the same species as the evilly tiresome squeals she'd regaled the Great Hall with in their Hogwarts days. The one that left Draco wincing and with a furious migraine pounding away at his temples.

Oh, but Brown was loathsome, nasty and vile! A blot upon the brighter side of females! Worse yet was that Draco had practically had to bash Harry over the head with a broomstick to make him pay the slightest heed to the developing (and hairy) situation and the silly, brainless prat still wouldn't buy in! Not a clue, he had, Mister I'm-the-Bloody-Hero, that the sorry excuse for a Witchy woman was desperately seeking some poor hapless sod to latch onto in the sea of her misery-or that he, Golden Potter, had been summarily elected her rock _du jour_!

Harry—his Harry—was oblivious, yes. Draco was fully aware of Harry's failings—they'd been together five wonderful years, to date, and he could safely say he knew Harry very well. Far better than anyone else ever would, that was certain! And Brown had been dealt a raw deal, yes, but that was still no excuse to attempt to lay grabby hands on someone else's man! And—all that aside for the moment—La Brown hadn't a hope in the Seven Circles if she believed Harry Potter would ever fall for a damned watering pot with over-large mammaries and a piercing, head-splitting giggle.

Harry was as bent as Draco was, the sod, and admitted it, no excuses. He just happened to be horribly…atrociously  
_loveable_. Poor little girl. Wanting—and _not_ getting.

_Hah_! Draco snorted, and viciously rearranged the drinks decanters on the polished walnut sideboard, checking for any dust the house elves had missed. There was none, but that wasn't terribly satisfactory. There was more at stake than mere housekeeping, here.

Draco Malfoy was threatened! He was actively being menaced by a twit with demonstrably more Spell-dyed blonde hair than brain matter—and boobs like bloody cocoanuts!

Such a fool, she…but then so was _Draco_, allowing it to happen at all. To progress even this far, unchecked, and Draco sadly admitted he had, more fool him! But what could he say? Really? It was Harry, and Harry considered Brown (_and _Finnegan, and Thomas, and Merlin knew who knew what other ex-Gryffindors were involved in this cozy little in-ex-House debacle, but Draco bet it would amount to the whole pitiful lot of them, one way or another) to be his bosom buddies. His mates, his pals, his extended family. It was an after-effect of the war, Draco figured, the way Harry felt about these people and in a way it had worked to his decided advantage. Harry had such a huge heart, under all that lousy grooming and careless manner. _He'd_ managed to get close to Harry because of Harry's naïve willingness to forgive, to make peace and let bygones be bygones. A little making up, a judicious spot of wine-plying, a snog or three in a nearby lav or a cloakroom and ultimately the 'bet'cha can't ignore _this_, you tit!' blowjob in Harry's mate's flat's hall closet—and Harry Potter, naïve git, had fallen into Draco's arms like a ripe plum from the bushes.

Oh, _yes_. Firm, juicy, delicious! Full of all the good things there ever, ever were, was Harry Potter—and Draco Malfoy knew exactly how to treat such a treasure. No one knew better than he! …With care, and fastidiously, and…and yet also rough and tough and strong. Harry was all man, damn it! Tears only confused him—the Brown bint's needy self-aggrandized agenda to procure a new bloke would only befuddle a congenitally idiotic nit like Harry further!

Oh, no! That wasn't how a bloke (nor anyone, really) seeking to latch on and keep Harry Potter would go about it, affecting to be all weeping and weedy. No. One needed a firm hand and an wary eye out for Harry's best interests, thanks so much! Yes. A nicely ripe plum, thanks ever so, and one Draco wasn't sharing with anyone, now he'd caught him! So help him, Salazar Slytherin. He'd sworn it on a stack of ancient, precious, grimoires before a very large audience just two years ago gone and he'd bloody well meant it!

He and Harry: partners. To the death, through the life, and beyond. Forsaking all others, and happily so!

It would just be—very—fucking—pleasant—if Harry would recall that blood-based oath they'd made so seriously. Draco hated (despised, abhorred) being made to feel…second-rate. A foregone conclusion. _Un_special.

Lagging heels behind a bloody bodaciously built boo-hooing ex-Gryff female in Harry's affections—or _attentions_, more like. Hated it! With a passion!

Draco paced furiously, gritting his teeth, adjusting knick-knacks and such about their tidy flat, as his hands felt the need of something—anything—to keep themselves busy. Or they'd wrap themselves 'round Harry's lovely throat when he stumbled in and then Draco wouldn't be responsible for the mayhem that ensued!

Damn twat _knew_ Draco had a temper! He knew Draco was jealous as sin! He _knew_! Why ever would he wish to drive Draco to this point, the bleeder?

So _stupid_, that Harry. So blind and dumb and honestly unknowing, the blighter. Fucking Dursleys! The damage they'd wrought on Harry's screwed-up emotional interior landscaping would never be fully plumbed!

Speaking of plumbing, fuck them—and the Brown bint—_and_ idiot Harry, for placing himself solidly in these sticky wickets and driving Draco completely spare in the process!

It was only…it was only that Harry had this peculiar habit of going a bit overboard for his friends, and Draco wanted him to be comfortable. To be at ease, and not feel he had to change that (nor anything else, either; Harry, for all that he drove Draco to the brink, was absolutely perfect, as is), just because it was Malfoy now in place of Weasley—either Weasley. _Any_ Weasley and any of those bloody Gryffindor types or that Looney Lovegood, either!

Not that Draco hadn't come to truly appreciate Lovegood (_she_, at least, was safely married off to that naturalist bloke), but. Well, moving on. So, and in a kind, thoughtful, highly personally unusual response to Harry's peculiarities over his sodding Gryffindorks (Draco was first to admit he was selfish, damn it!), Draco had never placed himself in the midst of an in-House imbroglio of this stature before now, nor ever hampered Harry's pressing need to fix things that weren't meant to be fiddled with—_not_ when that great drink of wet Longbottom had come crying to Harry over the Weasel female and _not _when that selfsame heap of blazing ginger temper had had the gall to pop up in their Floo at three in the same bloody morning, also weeping cauldrons of foolish tears. _Not_ even when that barmy-brained, Nargle-snuggling naturalist bloke Rolf What'sit and good old daft Looney Lovegood had had what amounted to some sort of peculiar Ravenclaw version of a lover's tiff in the middle of his and Harry's dining room during their inaugural 'let's meet each other's friends, again, and manage to be civil this time 'round' supper party.

Draco snapped his teeth, sharply, simply recalling that terrible, awful scene. Harry had had to rush through the Floo after Luna wandered blithely through it, off on her way to parts unknown, claiming airily she wished to live her life solely in the company of the blasted Nargles from then on, and _not_ that granola-munching, tree-hugging nit Rolf What'sit! And Rolf What'sit! _He_ had bloody well burst into a fit of messy tears, sobbing wildly and dripping snot all over Draco's imported cheese tray! _And_ Draco had been left sitting there at his own dinner table, rigid with shame and humiliation, surrounded by hostile Gryffindor forces and his own snickering lot of ex-Slytherins, with egg on his face and an hysterical Ravenclaw swot weeping into the linens!

Gah! What a fucking disaster that had been!

Bloody Harry, with his heart like a sponge! Always diving into dangerous waters, the twat.

Harry was a damned fixer-upper, that's what. Draco knew this, as well as he knew his own three middle names. The prat positively lived to spring into action for a cause. Draco understood this, perhaps more than anyone alive could—really, how could one not? He'd been bloody saved by the arse! Along with every-bloody-else in the Wizarding world!

It was as if Harry's calling card read 'Hero, Available Upon Demand'. Draco secretly rather admired that altruistic streak of the git's, as it did get things accomplished in a heartbeat, when Harry chose to pursue them: that brash energy, that brilliant charisma—but, alas, there _were_ reasonable limits. And he, though he was immensely proud of being 'the one' Harry came home to, the man Harry relied on when all chips were down on the table, was not at all happy with this bloody _sharing_. Draco outright hated bloody sharing, though he'd learnt not to let on too, too obviously—at least, not to Mister Brilliantly Oblivious.

For instance, he and the Weasel rubbed along only because the Weasel was a bloody fixture. If Draco attempted to oust him, Harry would likely drop Draco like a hot roasted tuber…well, perhaps not, but there'd be strong words between them, surely, and they wouldn't be pleasant words, either! Not that Draco would, naturally; Weasel was no threat to him, and neither was La Granger. In fact, he and La Granger managed rather well, mostly. To be horribly, openly brutal (and oh, how Draco hated admitting it, but Harry loved to hear it, the greedy, girly git), he and the Weasel had any number of items in common, now that their mutual 'thing' for Harry (granted, it was a different sort of _thing_ for each of them, but it was still Harry, and thus it was _mutual_) had forced them into more constant company.

Draco plopped himself on their carefully chosen divan—the one that matched both Harry's furniture and Draco's antiques—and snatched up the novel he'd been attempting to peruse three hours before—when the bastarding, cheating, oblivious git had been due to arrive home!

But the closely printed pages of the Muggle Grisham's invention held no interest.

Draco thought instead of his life now, which had Harry Potter featured prominently. How incredibly, strangely different it was from anything he'd ever imagined, back in the day.

Weasley. Oh gods, Weasley! The rotter! To think he was mates with bloody Weasley!

Quidditch, for one—sport, in general. They'd that in common, the two of them—he and Weasley, that was, though naturally also he and Harry, for Quidditch, especially. And mums. Mothers and the nature of their nosiness into one's personal life for another. Narcissa Malfoy and Molly Weasley, as their two vastly different sons had variously discovered, had a great many traits in common, nosiness over one's personal life being the main one! But not to get into that personal bugaboo now—Weasel wasn't the issue, this Brown bitch was, and Draco was sick to death of it. Of _her._ And her wretched invasion of_ his_ Harry!

And Harry—_his _Harry—was under the impression he was being a friend to the snot-nosed wench! A very true-blue one, all because the little skank had had her wittle grubby heart injured by that nasty cheating Finnegan sot, and now she was bereft of male company and sorely in need of a keeper.

Hah! Which Harry would never be, not even if the sun exploded right this instant! Oh, yes—Harry was a keeper—but he was _Draco's_!

Brown could pound sand. Brown could eat flobberworms, the bitch, and choke on them! In fact, Brown could be buried to the neck in that same lovely sand Draco was just thinking of—acres of it!—and no one would miss her! Least of all, _him_!

And dinner? The dinner he'd so carefully prepared, after a long hard day of toil? His special Friday night 'aren't we glad to be home again, us two, and happily together?' dinner was stony cold and it was nearing half ten—and there was absolutely no sign of the world-saving git—and Draco (Merlin help him; he didn't deserve this!) was_ furious_! Coldly, viciously, nastily furious!

The blighter would get his, when he deigned to show his Brown-lovin' nose—Draco would see to it, this time. No more of this nonsense!

_No more_.

"Arrghh! I'm bushed!" And that was Harry right now, stumbling through their Floo, three hours later than he should be, and likely somewhat fly. "Heeey, Draco! Hiya!"

Stupid Potter. So fucking spritely, the twat. Grinning blearily at Draco as if he'd not a clue.

Likely he didn't, too.

"Harry."

Harry found his feet, shedding assorted sundries as he came, weaving just a bit. Draco raised a chilly eyebrow and observed the mess the git was inadvertently creating, all over their nice tidy parlour.

"Harry," he observed dryly, setting a long finger atop the book in his lap to mark the page he'd been just so engrossed by ostensibly, he'd barely noticed the abrupt eruption of a messy-headed, green-eyed, whisky-fumed man onto the special-order spark-proof hearth rug. "You've (and here Draco firmly swallowed down the grim 'finally' he wanted so to insert, judging it to be both petty and completely unworthy of him) returned. At last. A little late, aren't you?"

How he refrained from screaming, Draco didn't know. He blamed it squarely on Harry, though, and clamped down on the acid welling in his gut. Fiercely!

"Ummm…" Harry hummed, all obvious, as if entirely unaware Draco was nearing a dangerous state of implosion, flinging his jangling keys towards the bowl by the Floo pot table. Draco refrained from glaring holes in the clumsy git when they missed it completely and skittered nosily across the floor, as he so wished to do.

"Ah. How was it, then?" Draco bit out, doggedly attempting to remain civil. "The object you were, er, unclogging? Did you sort out the bitc-Brown's plumbing for her?"

"Alright, I s'pose," Harry shrugged, dropping his cloak and kicking off his work shoes in weird little tipsy dance across the room. His messenger bag went off to the left somewhere, his work robes were slung over the one armchair in passing. "And no—hafta' to go back again tomorrow night, to finish it off. Damned Wickes didn't have the what'sit jigger I needed—that elbow-bendy bit. Special ordering it for me. In tomorrow."

"Ah," Draco replied, with formidable restraint. "Well, are you hungry, then? I've kept some supper for you, git, if you are. Likely gone cold now—that was hours ago."

"Ummmm, no…" Harry sighed, fetching up at last before Draco's casually crossed legs. He shuffled a bit in his socked toes, peering at Draco pensively through his floppy fringe, waiting. Waiting for Draco to do as he always did, which was to put aside whatever it was he'd going on and make a comfy place on his lap, specially marked 'Harry'. "Not really, no. Um, Lavender fed me already. We had pad thai."

Which Draco did do, swallowing down his all-consuming and perfectly natural ire, and bringing his knees together. _He'd_ prepared _coq au vin_, which was one of Harry's favourites. And consumed his share in solitary splendour, too…cursing all the while.

"Come on, then. Sit!" Draco beckoned sharply, fingers miraculously still unclenched, and the horribly _un_gripping Muggle mystery novel he wasn't really reading sent sliding carelessly away down the slippery cushions, his particular page lost in the shuffle. "Idiot, I told you, didn't I? More trouble than she's worth, La Brown. Tell me—is she any better yet? At least ceased with that horrible endless whimpering of hers? So tiresome, that; like a kneazle in heat. Loathsome. No wonder Finnegan left her."

"Draco!" Harry looked momentarily taken aback at Draco's vehemence. He scowled, just a bit, and his gaze turned cautious. Judging. "Draco…really! Uncalled for, alright? She's just…she's a bit at loose ends, now. Spare a little pity, yeah?"

"Huh." Draco clamped down on the scowl he felt rising; schooled his features into blandness. "Of course, Harry. Pity—got it to spare, I do. For _him_."

Draco didn't care, not in the slightest, not really. The Brown bint could take her own bloody useless life for all he cared—she could fall off the face of the earth and he'd be joyous, actually. Dancing in the streets, ecstatically pleased. But_ his_ Harry cared for the little homewrecker, and so he had to ask after her, the wretched, pea-brained, built-like-a-brick-shithole twit. It was the done thing, that. Taking an interest.

"Nnnn," Harry shrugged, ignoring the edge apparent in Draco's tone handily and plopping his very nice arse across Draco's waiting thighs. He'd evidently decided Draco wasn't really all that overtly dangerous at the moment, despite his thinned lips, twitchy eyebrows and narrow-eyed glacial glare. "Maybe a bit, but…I dunno. Think it really took the stuffing out of her, what Seamus did, running away like that with Dean. Not that I blame _him_, either, Draco—a person can't live like that, always trying to be someone else. I should know, yeah?"

"Hmmm." Draco settled his arms 'round Harry's torso and shoulders; reeled him in. It was comforting; it was all he needed, to have Harry home again. The stomach acid that had been crawling up his esophagus for the last few hours burbled and thought seriously about subsiding, even. "Hmmm."

He buried his nose in Harry's hair, raising a not-too-trembling hand to smooth back errant tendrils.

"So, erm…not hungry, then?"

"Nope, sorry," Harry smiled into Draco's throat, where he'd shoved his cold nose, the little git. "You ate, already?"

"Yeah," Draco allowed, and pressed a kiss on Harry's temple, right above the faded scar. "Made your favourite, too, you laggard, impolite bastard."

"Sorry, luv," Harry shrugged and wended his arms a bit tighter 'round Draco's waist, snuggling. "Wish I'd been here, instead. Stupid drains, the Muggle ones—always mucked up. And poor Lav—she's a right mess, she is. I just…I just feel so sorry for her, now. She needs her friends about her."

"Mmm," Draco wasn't commenting on 'poor Lav' at the moment. Likely he couldn't remain civil if he opened his lips to speak further of the Gryffindweeb female, in all her jiggly jugged glory and drippy mascara. But this—this was better, markedly so. His lot had improved vastly, compared to five minutes before: he'd Harry in his arms again, right where the little git should be. Where Harry was supposed to be, by all that was just and right in Draco's life. "Whatever, git. I, er—I missed you earlier—you didn't Owl me?"

"Couldn't," Harry mumbled, lips brushing Draco's collarbone. One deft hand snuck up and began unbuttoning the silk-knotted frogs that clasped together the high neck of his tunic. "Floo's broken, too, and I didn't think to Owl you till it was late—and then poor Ernestine's nesting. You know how it is."

"Bloody useless Owls we have," Draco growled and grumbled as he shrugged his shoulders, but he was proud, too. As if they were his own offsping, those owlets. For his and Harry's two silly feathered letter-carriers had found life-long mates in the company of one another, just as he and Harry had. It was all too, too soppy for words, that, but _yes_—Ernestine, Harry's Great Horned, _was _nesting, with three downy chicks under her great striped wings, and he could understand exactly why Harry didn't want to call her away from the duties of motherhood. Harry was an utter slob for little fuzzy helpless beasties, the prat. "You could've used Ethelred. He's only sitting 'round on his great duff, the useless git."

Ethelred was Draco's long-eared owl, to replace the eagle owl he'd lost in the war. Ethelred was aptly named, too, being a total twit, with little to no sense of actual direction. Ethelred might or might not go where he was sent, on any given day; they both generally employed Ernestine to actually Owl something. A useless waste of feathers and good cage space, that Ethelred. But Harry loved him too, the silly sot, and so Draco kept him on, the useless thing.

For Harry.

"Right," Harry chuckled softly; he'd almost all Draco's knotted frogs unclasped and Draco shivered a bit as the cooler evening air wafted against his sensitive nipples. "Don't think so. Mmmm, you taste so good, luv," he added, squirming 'round in Draco's lap to latch on to one perked pink nub and nipping it lightly. He sucked at bit harder and Draco shuddered happily, arching his spine with a groan. "I've missed you. All day, I've missed you."

"Mmmm-aahhhh! Watch it, Harry!" Draco gasped when Harry was bit too enthusiastic—but he did nothing to prevent it, either, the ravaging of his bared chest by teasing tongue and flexing lips. "Missed—you—too—you-great-prat! Mind the teeth, now! That smarts, you little prick!"

"Really? Wasn't sure, when I came in," Harry glanced up, grinning wryly. Perhaps he wasn't as sodden with Firewhisky as Draco had thought. The light in his eyes seemed almost…intelligent. "That you were—missing me, that is. Thought you were vexed with me, Draco, instead. Not too fond of our Lav, are you?"

Draco flushed lightly at the accusation; couldn't control it, not whilst Harry was trailing his fingertips—his messy, untrimmed, bitten-over fingernails, scratchy and unkempt, the heathen bastard—down the sculpted planes of his bared torso. He shivered in reaction, tossing his head regally.

"Why would you ever say that, git?" he demanded imperiously, and instantly froze as Harry insinuated a wide warm hand between his thighs, flexing continuously under Harry's trim arse. "Hah!" he exclaimed. "Cease attempting to distract me! Rotter! Unfair!"

Harry laughed at him, the skin 'round his green eyes crinkling, and used that wicked, sly hand to fondle Draco's bits. Shed his spectacles, too, carelessly discarding them over the arm of the sofa.

"Not distracting, precisely," he grinned. "Just, erm, resetting your channel, a bit, tosser. You seem…tense. Too tense. For a Friday night. I want you not to be, yeah?"

"Yes?" Draco employed an inquisitive eyebrow; Merlin forgive him if he wasn't quite buying into this all-out attack Harry was laying on his sensibilities There had to be some ulterior motive; Potter wanted something of him. "I'm perfectly well, Potter—perfectly! And not tense at all, damn your eyes! There's no need to butter me up, arse—"

"Not buttering, 'zactly," Harry smiled, his fingers exploring in very wicked ways. "More…petting. I like touching you, prat."

"Mmm," Draco couldn't quibble with that; he liked it when Harry touched him, damn it! "Still…there's no need to make up to me. You're not in hot water, you brainless dork."

Oh, yes—Harry had to return to that horrid slag's flat tomorrow; so he'd said, vaguely—something about elbowy-shaped drainage bits needed.

Draco could be nasty about it—he'd wanted Harry to himself for the space a weekend, sod it; was that too much to ask, really?—or he could be polite. He could, if the fancy struck him, be…considerate.

"No?" Harry was sliding; squirming his way off Draco's lap, and tearing his shirt over his head in the process, heedless of cuff and collar buttons. One or two pinged as the threads released and they shot off in various directions, striking photo frames and vases. "Mmmm, I beg to disagree, Mister Malfoy. I've a feeling I've tried your patience recently."

"Oh? Do you now?" Draco could barely think about his thinned-out, sorely tested 'patience'; with the shirt gone by the wayside, Harry was concentrating on the removal of Draco's loose drawstring trousers. They were tugged sharply down his hips and thighs and the cooler air caused his cock to jerk beneath the confines of his drawers. "Ah! Pot—"

"Oh, yes," Harry mumbled, tongue inserting itself in the seam between thigh and groin, newly revealed now that boxers had joined Draco's sleep pants, carelessly flung off to one side of his spread legs. Harry was between his knees, head buried against Draco's springy blond shot hairs, and snuffling like a pig rooting truffles. "Say my name, Draco. Say 'Harry', luv—I'm not just Potter, am I?"

"Grrr! You git! Harry—Harry, Harry, _Harry_! Happy now, Potter?" Draco snarled, all hope of convincing Harry to stay at home disappearing. The heroic git would no doubt make good on his promise to that bitch Brown!

When the heroic git licked at Draco's cock—all along the underside, slowly pressing the flat of his tongue against the throbbing vein…and then softly, teasing, moist lips trailing over the swollen head as if it were a lolly, presented for his pleasure, Draco nearly shrieked his annoyance—his arousal.

Both were extreme.

"Ah! Fucking hell! Slow down, Ha-Harry! I'll come if you do that!" Draco cautioned, blinking rapidly. He buried his fingers in Harry's hair for want of better place to put them. On the one hand, his lips wanted more of that mouth in his own; on the other, he'd hex to death anyone who dared part that tongue from his prick—it was _that_ good.

So very, very good; all he'd ever wanted.

"Harry," he muttered helplessly, when the git opened wide and swallowed him down. "Harry…" he whispered, and nearly cried from the sheer beauty of this moment, with Harry here, on his knees, like a bloody worshipper at the altar of Draco.

All—all he'd ever, ever want, Harry. His Harry.

"Ooohhh, Haaarrrry," he whispered, and felt his stupid selfish heart lurch in his achy chest. "Oh, Harry!" Maybe—just maybe—he could allow La Brown a little more of Harry—but only if Harry knew this was his home. His place, here with Draco.

"Love you, prat," Harry slurped his way up and off Draco's rigid dick with an audible pop, staring intently up at Draco's face. He gripped Draco's kneecaps, squeezing them comfortably, spreading them wide—and Draco allowed it, wide-eyed and intent on that gaze. "I love you so much, Draco. Please don't doubt it."

"No—no!" If nothing else, ever, than Draco had to let Harry know he didn't doubt. That he wouldn't think to—that he couldn't bear to, not now, nor in the future. His life was built atop this rock-solid foundation; there was nothing and no one else in the world for him. He couldn't conceive of having another person see him like this—open and spread and vulnerable, waiting, wanting—he didn't wish to.

"No," he nodded firmly. "I don't, you great berk. Now," he nodded meaningfully towards his cock, damp with saliva streaks and bobbing urgently, abandoned, "could you please _please _get on with it? I'm waiting."

"Prick," Harry chortled, all laughing green eyes and teeth. "And how was your day, dear? Busy? Work alright?"

"Oh! Oh, fuck you, too, Potter!" Draco yelped—teeth! The little bastard had deliberately scraped his incisors down Draco's family jewels, just now!—and let his heavy head fall back upon the cushion, squinching his eyelids shut tight against the sight of that black mop of hair, returned to flopping with a will. "Hate you!"

"Mmm-hmmm," Harry hummed, "Sure you do, Draco," and Draco nearly shot his waiting load then and there. He'd missed this sensation all day long—he had needed—did need—this singular feeling, every moment of every dreary hour he spent working, separated from _his _Harry by the idiot requirement that he earn an acceptable living. This mouth; that body—those hands, _that_ heart.

So what if he had to spare a bit of it to others? Needy people, like him, but so much less fortunate than he. Those drawn to the blazing inferno that was Harry Potter—all torch-bright and heady-warm and brilliant, an oasis of glorious life in a cold desert. Couldn't blame them, really—even that sorry bint Brown, who dared think to lay her little red-lacquered claws deep into _Draco's_ Harry. _She_—she'd never have him—not like Draco did. _She'd _never deserve him, nor care about what Harry really needed, deep down, beneath all the glitzy heroics—not as Draco did.

Her loss.

_His_ life. _Draco's._

_His Harry_.

of Form


End file.
